Category Archives: shetland


November, month of hellery – this fine Shetland dialect word that encapsulates the worse from the sky in the form of storms of any kind – enshrouded in darkness since daylight feels more and more elusive.

Hel, hell, hellery, as 2020 has never matched our expectations; held us hostage within our walls, and loved ones disappear…

Spaekalation – another fine Shetland dialect word that translates as gossip – is a raw piece written at night, as an attempt to deal with both the savagery of the sky and a sudden and an unexpected bereavement. This poem was first written in the dialect and then translated in English


Whit's yun?

Is yun a gooster or a ghoul?

Twa goggly eens i'da tree,

is yun an owl o some kind?

Ta da dare-say o'da mirken, da vaelensi is juist


dey say dat ghosts ir among wis,

waanderin, lone, aroond
wir laand - dy an

me hoose,

da tattie crö, barn an byre -

dey say dey travel wi da flan an da snitter,

skid juist laek bairns apö

da snaa an glerl o ice,

hide i'da white o'da moorie ta

mind da reek o chimney stacks.

Dey say dey sit by da fire atween

da caird an da wirsit -

da Slockit Licht,

crabbit embers ta keep

da memory alive.

Deir shadows

glide alaang da waa,

listen ta da saang o'da nicht.



What's this?

Is that a messy gust of wind or just a ghoul?

Two goggly eyes inside a tree,

is it an owl of some kind?

To the hear-say of dusk,

That brisk downpour has just begun;

They say that ghosts are among us,

wandering, lone, around

the land, my and

your house,

the spud corner, barn and cowshed -

they say they travel with wind gusts or biting cold air,

skid just like kids on

snow and ice,

hide in the white of a blizzard to

reminisce smoke from the stacks.

They say they sit by the fire, between

carding tool and the yarn -

Extinguished Light,

dodgy embers to

keep the

memory alive.

Their shadows glide along

the wall,

listen to the tune of

the night.

© Nat Hall 2020

For you, dear Nybakk Clan ♥️


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Light divine when all feels dark…

Today, I woke up with the sunrise.

Saoirse the Cat, tended and out, released from her nocturnal curfew, remains oblivious to any weekday or clock change… To her, daybreak demands my care and attention, as a new day calls from the sky .

November, month of shorter days, storms and shine. Sunrise reddens hillsides and refracts on window panes… Tis the time to break your fast with starlings that came to raid the bird feeders and forage frantic through rot and golden leaves roses littered to feed the ground.

Days, precious days, where time whirl inside oceanic rollers… And light vanishes for long nights. Every minute counts, as life depends on it.

To watch a sundown and wonder at it, listening to the Atlantic, incessant music from our Earth, and feel at one with the divine.

Tis a time where the island welcomes dwellers for winter, from the planet or colder climes. Mother Nature is amazing. In between episodes of hel, hell, hellery, they come to grace our shores and lives.

So much beauty we share and tend to forget as we lock ourselves in this man-made artificial world. This world regulated by clocks and figures of all kinds…. Compartmented in social scales meant to keep us on some frontline. Calendars and even clock change that still belong to another century tainted with wars…

November remembers months of madness, when guns turned life into nightmares, harm and darkness; where eyes opened for a last time, feet inside mud, lice, ice and rats.

That war that never ended all others, as we don’t seem to learn lessons from our own past. Most of our kind regard history to the property of scholars locked in libraries inside books. And even though suffering still tarnish our own lives, we fall for the same one… We invent organisations to temperate bombs and emergency crises. And when leaders spit at freedom, we say amen and stay quiet behind small screens.

November the great month of changes and miracles…

Today, we cry our relief to the world, celebrate light and a new world that reconciled with wisdom instead of darkness, as the world’s first democracy dared to elect a tandem that may relieve a whole planet…

A first woman in the land of the forefathers. A new milestone seeding new possibilities.

Light over the Atlantic

I can only pray wisdom prevails over dollars; pray to walk the shore and marvel at life in all its forms, as I depend on it all to survive. Every daybreak feels a miracle in itself – every sundown, the path to reconvene with stars… Trillions of eyes from a creator of light and life. How can a species wreck it all?

Tis time to repair whilst we can.

I wish to enjoy the garden, breakfast with starlings at sunrise, and feel at one with the island, sky and ocean.

Garden Raiders

Starlings are like vikings -
when they descend on trees, they will raid without shame treasure troves to
the last!
Starlings are gregarious -
They're no robin or
glitter, shiny armoured, billed to loot
the suet - they argue without
end on
branches or dead
pitiless in
their squads...
If they could hold an axe,
they would kill
merciless, to
the final
fat crumb...
They've got the floor,
forage through the gold of rose leaves,
leave so little to the sparrows;
they might tolerate
a blackbird,
dressed to
hammer with their bills,
squabble and survive November,
the savage price named

© Nat Hall 2020.

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vision for #nationalpoetryday

This year’s #nationalpoetryday explores the theme of “vision”.

Here is my stone to the great edifice:


The paradox of sight, where
iris turns to dust -
the sheer white beam of light lost in corners of space, where
blackness sips cold sweat out of trillions of
stars in this void of silence;
Saturn in
your spyglass,
a glimpse of ice and rocks
trapped around
a planet nobody spots at night.
Prisoners of iron,
gravity and apples as 
laws defined by one visionary great mind at
rest against a tree, here on
our home planet,
blue marble of wonders 
humanity plunders,
slashes by
billions in the name of progress.
Look again through
the glass,
Saturn so far away, void of life in silence;
the blind can look away till
our world turns silent,
trapped inside
their own
space on the ground.

© Nat Hall 2020

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wind of change

We are never fully aware of things until they skelp (slap) you in the face.

My first drive back north to catch the sunset at Mavis Grind – the gateway to Northmavine, the north end of the main island – turned far darker as I caught windfarm ground work in progress with trucks at rest at the foot of hills along the A970 off Sandwater Loch. My heart sank. So far, I had only gazed at stills and drone footage in social media… All of the sudden, it became real.

For years, I have marvelled at Central Mainland – Sandwater, Kergord, da Lang Kames… Nesting, Voe – legendary places of wilderness teeming with rich and varied life. For years, we have been wrestling with a nightmare that will change life and lives – wild as well as human – forever.

For years, I have walked the shore and shared it openly: take a picture of it all before it is changed for ever.

We have lost a battle.

Yet instead of the expected pictures taken from the roadside, I thought of friend & artist Paul Bloomer’s current project entitled Shadowed Valley.

Whilst Paul has been developing his response on canvas through the main medium of charcoal, selected recent pieces of his work struck me over recent time.

Shadowed Valley by Paul Bloomer
Shadowed Valley by Paul Bloomer

In turn, I am expressing in words as my response to his work. With gracious thanks, Paul, for your kindness & powerful work.

Da Death Valley

Winds of change,

listen to the silent valley.

Through the darklands we now wander –

round da paets’ broos, where

whimbrels nest,

gigantic claws obey men’s will;

among heather & crowberries where

merlins hide their love and genes,

metallic claws slash & plunder deep through

this land where

redshanks call, protect their youngs between a loch and

Peta’s print,

way past the ridges of wir Kames,

Lottie’s Half-Way Hoose and


Shackled men to demon-money only

see gold, far away vaults,

far too oblivious to


whimbrels, merlins or

mystic mountain hares, Heather Ling or rich purple bells,

the divine sanctuary of life.

Men dunna ken,

they come with trucks as giant claws rage through wir laand,

rape in peace to satisfy needs


nearby folk dread the shadows of longer blades,

Don Quixote’s nightmare

far north.

© Nat Hall 2020

Poet’s Notes

da paets’ broos: (Shetland dialect) the edge of eroded peat (turf); da Laang Kames (place-name): the long valley shaped from Sandwater Loch to the Village of Voe and Nesting area; Peta: (from O.N. & Shetland folklore) name given to a giant that fell asleep in the valley of da Laang Kames; “Men dunna ken”: (from Shetland dialect) expression meaning “people don’t know”; wir laand: our homeland.

Shadowed Valley by Paul Bloomer

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Rise above the artificial world – be the spirit of bold eagle, stretch out pectorals and feathers… Each wing beat closer to the sky.
unchain you from magpies;
glitter and shiny
© NH 2020.

Thank you, Amazing World 🙂

Look fur da smaa bits i’da sun, waater an ert, deep i’da paets whaar
life reaches through

filaments invisible – indivisible ta wis aa, ta makk up roots fur da hedder an tormentil,

dis wharp an weft sae vegetal whaar

da plivver’s page comes ta hide, invents da next generation.

Tell me dy hert can see dis wirld, sing me ageen da boannie saang.

And, in English

Look for molecules in the sun, water and earth, deep in blue peat,

where life reaches through filaments invisible – indivisible from us all, to make up roots for the heather and tormentil,

this wharp and weft so vegetal, where

the shy redshank comes to hide, invents the next generation.

Tell me your heart can see this world, sing me again the gentle song.

© NH 2020

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Here comes a piece right from the heart, as I begin to come to terms with a virus that confine us and still stirs fears won’t go away and belongs to Natural Laws.

As soon as we accept this, we become survivors. Put aside politics, those daily obscure statistics… Are we seriously reminded daily about death rates related to the flu, coronary disease, smoking & other drugs? And if only… If only we were reminded daily about the state of our homeworld; victims from climate change.

Yes, it is dangerous; yes, it can kill. Yet like others, we will pull through or disappear… Life is precious and every new morning feels a blank page.

Blank Page

New beginnings,
threads from loose ends, shreds of blankness left in
a corner of a page, chapter so void of
ink and thoughts.

that point of
singularity where dreams wonder out of
nowhere, elemental as
hydrogen in
time and
where syllables
echo like dots
from a ballpoint
pen ready to blacken first page, new beginnings in
a cartridge without smudges, writer’s mistakes…
Look at it now,
It has darkened beyond
belief, as
new beginnings set to sail as
asteroids, debris, comets,
bouncing flash balls from
nebulae still
to be imagined and
Fresh universe to the writer.

© Nat Hall 2020

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Da Lang Kames, Shetland Mainland.

Da Lang Kames, from O.N., “Long Ridges” . This is a part of my island. A magical gateway to this last corners of wilderness, as BBC Wildlife broadcaster Simon King once defined Shetland.

There is a deep blanket of peat, a rich, precious, protective and fragile habitat about to be destroyed in the name of greed by a few. In spite of a seven year campaign or so, wir community ignored when alternatives exist. A too grand-scale project and areas of special scientific interest decimated by bulldozers… Folk impacted notably involve Nesting, Aith and up to Vidlin, as da Kames extend East and West.

Central Mainland, Shetland.
They want a 103 turbines of that size scattered from wir Lang Kames to Vidlin.

Do not take me wrong.

Not against renewable energy – but against the sheer size of a wind farm in such a small gem of archipelago & impact on my local environment: destruction of peat blanket, loss of precious & fragile habitat… Wir rural community ignored for years in the name of money, as well as long-term impact on tourism, incl. eco-tourism. A terrible mistake for Shetland.

There are alternatives that could have made us independent from this hellish national grid: peerie community turbines (tidal or wind). Instead, sold out to a giant parent company (SSE) for snap short-term profit… Utter Disgrace.

I want to believe it is not too late. Too late to save the rest of Shetland from those who want to destroy it.

If you too have visited my islands,

You will have marvelled at these magical places… Maybe you drove/were driven along the N/S road along da Lang Kames to reach magic places like Eshaness, Uyea or Toft on your way to Yell and Unst or Fetlar, wir North Isles…

Thanks to Billy Fox for the graphic images.

Shetland is world famous for its many natural and archaeological treasures –

To plunder it this way is both eco-genocide and damaging to our community.

Please share the logo and help us save Shetland. Thank you.


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Working-Class Heroes

Every morning, the same pavement.

Working-Class folk don’t wear medals, just a clone mask.

They feed the belly of the ship with such ardour, ore, mighty coal,

invisible on

upper deck, their eyes unknown,

left to silence…

Shackled to shovel and


their only world,

fire -darkness, prisoner to

plates and rivets, air filled with smoke, soot and carbon –

the nemesis of pink champagne,

silk on pale skin, untouched


Unaware of night and

iceberg, as

they fuel insatiable mouths; revel in rags, hail to the steam whilst the captain dines at

table with officers and


They’ll never know the mundane world, but will perish with their own ship in the name of

blind Britannia.

Working-Class Heroes behind

masks, look at your hands bruised with

blisters – you are sole key to

the engine, the feisty

beast and


© Nat Hall 2020

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Starry nights have returned…

When night returns on my latitude, and conditions are right, we see it all… Stars, constellations, our Milky Way, meteors and auroras. It is magic.

On Friday night, and to my great surprise, it did just this… Against the odds of forecasters, the veil vanished and let me contemplate such marvellous spectacle. Here comes a prose poem to celebrate it .


Tonight, I captured Arcturus. Its light pulsed heart, so unmatched glow flicked and flickered in my parallel universe... W by NW, there, inside mid-August twilight, as Elvis echoed deep in stars, I felt the weight of the great Plough lost in a sea of sentinels. Tonight, I harnessed Aquila.

Where Perseids crash in oblivion, I looked for his wings in North night and imagined a hooded friend with two ravens, cloaked and solemn, eyes down on us.

Tonight, I saw the Milky Way, forbidden patches among stars…

So elusive in August skies, the whole of my world in your hands. Light refracted to reach us out and remind us our loneliness belongs to black; that area called underworld, Hades or Hel.

The Creator gave us Lyra, Betelgeuse and Altair in an effort to help our way – never lose sight of the greatness our universe colours with grace; redraw known shapes with my index like a Kepler or a dreamer.

Tonight, I wished for that white star that bears my name to protect us from knives and blades, shackles or chains – reunite us with divine light, and let us shine among stardust.

© Nat Hall 2020

Light in darkness

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Seasonal gathering of silage.


Da shalders* have moved on. Da playing fields, once

more silent.

Their flight calls,




sliding into Hairst,

wir hame sky changed

its song; tis now

time for


shriek calls from

young blackbirds still

clad in brown



gathering of

life around cliffs and

headlands, our

first sign of




rolled in bails,

the winged world can

move on, our

gulls will

fill a

sky and

join Aeolus in

his quest for new songs.

8 Aug 2020.



Golden Plover in cotton grass

Poet’s Notes

Hairst means harvest, and is also the Shetland name for autumn, derived from Norwegian Høst & German Herbst…

Shalders, the Shetland name for oystercatchers.

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